Pitter Patter
by Elialys
Summary: Post 4x15. 'It's raining outside, and Peter's touch isn't unlike the rain. She can almost envision it, each drop falling inexorably to the ground, shattering into a million more minuscule droplets.'


**Disclaimer:** Blablabla I write fanfics

**Spoilers**: Up to 4x15 'A Short Story About Love'

**Rating**: M (yay)

**A/N: **I wrote this because hormones happened. I've been very bad at answering reviews lately, but be assured that they all warm my heart in the best way :') Don't hesitate to let me know what you thought of this one ;)

This is M rated for a reason...happy Fringe Fridaaaaay! :D My apologies for any typo and such.

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><p><strong>PITTER-PATTER<strong>

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><p>Given the amount of time Olivia had spent dreaming about Peter these past few months, and given the nature of these dreams, the fact that he has chosen to wake her up the way he is now on their first night back together is indisputably appropriate.<p>

And by that, she means how he is well on his way to be making love to her again in a matter of timeless instants now, when she is still unsure of what is real and what is not. Time and reality are relative and highly irrelevant when you are suspended between sleep and awareness, with your lover's bare skin trying to meld into yours. It doesn't matter, not when your blood isn't simply running but _rushing_ through your veins, pulsing against your temples and deep within, tingling into your fingertips and all the way down your toes, and you feel intoxicated on the mere knowledge that this is only the prelude of some marvelous pleasure.

It would appear that her body has caught up with him long before her mind does. She awakes from her slumber to the feel of his warm breath into the crook of her neck, one of her hands already buried deep in his hair, while the other rests limply into the curve of his lower back, a leg loosely wrapped around his. She is not surprised in the least by this occurrence; she has missed him, profoundly, and there is a familiar authenticity in their physical bond that no bump or obstacle can erase.

Memories may be wiped off, timelines can be rewritten, her body is attuned to his, now; it possesses memories of its own, and the proximity of their skins or the feel of his heartbeat upon her chest will always pull her back to him, as if responding to their own gravitational law.

She seeks him, craves him, longs for him.

She very briefly wonders if she might be dreaming again, but she knows this is real.

He is heavy above her, his weight almost crushing her chest, pressing her deeper into the mattress and shortening her breath. When she moves her leg higher against his side, pushing her knee between his ribs, she feels the dull pain of her muscles settling in places that hadn't been sore in quite a while, proof that she is undeniably awake. It is a good soreness, one that makes her feel both satiated and famished for more. It makes her feel tethered to the world, to this room, to his flesh.

They don't talk, this time around, not even with quiet murmurs the way they had a few hours ago, when they had forgotten all about the biting cold outside, lost in the gathering warmth between limbs and sheets, and they silently rewrote these past few months of absence with mounting passion.

The room isn't completely devoid of sound either. She hears a distinctive pattern coming from elsewhere, from behind the window.

_Pitter-patter pitter-patter…_

It's raining outside, and Peter's touch isn't unlike the rain.

She can almost envision it, each drop falling inexorably to the ground, shattering into a million more minuscule droplets. His fingers trace her skin as he slithers oh so slowly over her, and from that point on, her nerves ignite and the shivering message they send becomes millions of sparks that spread, farther and deeper.

No, there really is no need for word. She doesn't need to ask him why he is awake well before the break of dawn, or why he has decided to wake her up in such way, when she knows that in a past life, he would have been content simply watching her sleep; she knows this because she had caught him doing it on a few occasions, had done it herself on a few more, as she was often awake long before him. It's not enough anymore, or at least not yet. Maybe they will reach that kind of serenity again, after some time, but not tonight.

Tonight, he seeks reassurance with the same intensity that had driven his touch hours ago, only half a heartbeat slower, maybe, as the last traces of sleep still enshrouds them both. In all honesty, she needs this just as much as he does. And she is so powerless under him, against him, well aware by now that this will unfold exactly the way he wants it to, and being just as confident that all it would take is a simple word from her to make him stop.

But she doesn't want him to stop, cannot have him stop now, when her entire body feels electrified and she is slave to that heat in her blood, to the warmth of his skin. She wants him closer, needs him inside of her, no matter how heavy he already is over her, because it is a weight she knows and loves, just like the smell of him. When he shifts slightly and brings a kneading hand to her breast, sucking at her pulsing point with dedication, her fingers tighten in his hair. The sigh she then exhales is one of the few other sounds that break the silence of the room, as are the subdued creaks of her bed from their every dawdling motion, or the rippling caress of their skins against linen, the sheet getting lower and lower over his hips. Soon, it will be rumpled at the end of the bed, his feet entangled in it, and that will be just fine, the warmth created by their exertion keeping the cold afar.

Right now, it is the warmth of his palm that she feels as he massages the flesh of her breast in a perfect cadence, eliciting an anticipated reaction, her nipple hardening into his palm. When he uses his thumb to tease it even more, circling and pressing, sleep has never seemed farther away from her. He has successfully lured her to him, her every breath now motivated by the unmistakable stirs of pleasure swelling within her. He is more than ready himself; she feels the blazing heat of him between her legs, feels it move against her skin every time he moves, too, and her fever worsens.

She's clinging to him, now, her arm hooked over the back of his head, her grip firm on his hair as she pulls him to her to press her mouth to his skin. She tastes the salt of his sweat on her tongue, of his sweat and hers, vestige of their previous embrace.

She has to loosen her hold on him when he moves his head. He leaves her neck to lean his forehead upon hers, and their eyes lock in the semi-darkness as his hand travels down between them. His fingers swiftly slide through her folds, a gesture that isn't only giving, but also an intuitive mean for him to make sure her body is ready for the receiving part of this exchange; it most definitely is, her insides aching for him now with the might of a growing fire. The steady swelling within her instantly peaks when he dips into her pulsing warmth with curling fingers, and his thumb resumes its circling motion, now focused on her most sensitive bundle of sizzling nerves.

Heat shoots through her limbs and spreads, her vision brightening; she falls deeper into the blue of his gaze, her fingers digging into his scalp as she rocks into his hands. Her back arches off the mattress, and she pants heavily, her parted lips a mere inch away from his. He captures her bottom lip between his teeth and tugs at the plump flesh, both gently and sensually, causing her other hand to squeeze the firm muscles of his buttock. His fingers pump deeper, harder, reaching places that stimulate her in all the right ways, soon drawing a very low moan out of her.

Her grip once more firm on his hair, she eagerly pulls his face to hers to erase that annoying distance, causing their teeth to clash and not giving a damn, her tongue invading his mouth and finding his in a hungry caress, to which he responds in earnest. Keeping her hand in his hair to make sure he will stay right _there_, the other one slips between them as well to run her fingers along the throbbing length of his erection, before enclosing it fully in her hand, her possessive strokes matching his pace and soon causing him to moan in return.

It isn't long before the rhythm of his hand becomes more erratic than controlled, unable to stop his hips from rolling into her touch, and she has no doubt that he is aching for her as much as she does him, their kiss quite crazed, too. With another guttural groan, he eventually lets go of her lips to rest his forehead against hers again, both their skins slightly damp now. His fingers leave her warmth to go grab her bent leg under her knee, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh as he pushes it higher. Her own hand guides him even though it is a way he knows well. She moans once more, her hand going back to clutching his buttock when he merely runs the full length of him over her wet core a couple of times, trying to direct him as he teases them both, eventually positioning himself at her entrance.

With her leg wrapped firmly over his back, heel pinned to his spine, and with her other set of toes pressed into his calf, she lets go his hair to rest her hand on his cheek. He tilts his head to kiss the soft skin of her wrist, briefly sucking at her pulsing point before lowering his face to hers, nose against nose, and she gaps soundlessly when he buries himself almost fully into her with one powerful thrust. She embraces the entirety of him, her arm now wrapped around him and clinging to his shoulder as her hold on his face tightens, the pads of her fingers sinking into the tender skin.

They remain still for a moment, simply taking in and appreciating the feel of the other, knowing that they can't take this for granted anymore. Propping himself up on one arm, he raises his head to look at her, his other hand coming up to her face. He grazes her cheek with the back of his nails, and that simple touch feels blissful. She feels it, always feels it whenever he melds with her, how sensitive her entire being becomes, and the energy that blossoms from their embrace doesn't simply have the power to melt and mold her flesh; she feels like she could bend worlds.

It is the closest they ever come to talk, that night; they don't. Truthfully, there isn't much to say, there never is, their shared gaze and strong physical connection more than enough in that moment. Her fingers move, leaving his face to meet his, still drawing humming lines on her cheek. She intertwines them together, squeezing his reassuringly, before letting their joined hands fall near her head, against the headboard. She then squeezes _him_, clenching her inner muscles around him, and he closes his eyes with a low groan, his head dropping; with his lips so close to her ear, when his next sigh comes, she thinks he might be sighing her name.

And yet, he still doesn't move. Enclosed as she is beneath him, she doesn't have much room for movements, but she doesn't need much for what she has in mind. She starts rolling her hips with intense purpose, her fingers running over his back in a enticing pattern, and it isn't long before her swaying motion gets him to give in to his need to reciprocate. He withdraws almost completely, only to push back into her with more force, and she surrenders to the sensation with an appreciative sigh.

He sets a slow pace that she quickly adopts; it is a bit _too_ slow, the kind of languorous rhythm that usually leads her to swiftly roll them over and speed things up. But she had already been the one on top for the most part, a few hours ago, she wants to let him set the terms ; in any case, they had been driven by such an extreme need at the time that he hadn't held anything back, not like he is now. She lets him do this slowly, because he puts more passion and dedication in each of his thrust than any lover she ever had, the most skilled as well as the most enthusiastic, and she feels almost overwhelmed by his reverence.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter that her body feels so raw that she would gladly take his roughest moves while she left marks on his back with her nails and on his shoulder with her teeth. The sex is good, of course the sex is good, but right at that instant, it is a mere vessel for something else, something that goes way beyond the simple physical satiation that comes with sexual intercourse; it has everything to do with their attempt to merge into one another in every possible way.

Olivia is too derisive about any real romantic notion to ever utter words like _love making_ without pursing her lips a bit and rolling her eyes, but it doesn't make the act any less genuine, nor does it change the fact that it is exactly what they are doing right now. And Peter is most definitely intent on proving it to her with his languid thrusts, nearly stopping completely again on several occasions to simply bring his face to hers, locking their eyes together, and she thinks he might break her with the sheer force of his gaze.

All she can do is join him in this slow, slow excruciating and luscious dance, clinging to him a bit too intensely because the truth is, she's just as gone, just as in love, and she has _missed_ him, has come so close to losing him again. This is the most torturous deliverance of all, their bodies soon turning into one rippling heap of entangled limbs, of rubbing skins and pounding hearts overflowed with endorphins.

Of all the drugs she has been required to take in her life, he is the only she has ever gotten addicted to.

The moment inevitably comes when their most primeval urges take over, and he becomes positively more forceful, encouraged by her appreciative gasps and moans, matching his frenzy. He finally lets go of her hand, which he had kept pinned into her pillow, and soon he is shifting, grabbing her and changing the angle of his hips, sinking deeper within her; when she feels his hand reach for her most sensitive spot between their grinding bodies, she knows she's lost. Her whole being trembles in the imminence of her orgasm, and her hand shoots up to splay over the headboard as the other claws at his back, feeling his strong muscles move like quicksand beneath her palm.

In the last stretch of their crazy race, there is nothing slow about the way they move anymore, yearning for relief now. He pounds into her and she meets every strong snap of his hips, his assault doubled by his skilled fingers. There is absolutely no escaping the impending implosion that is consuming every last bit of her, and when the moment comes, she promptly lets go of her grip on reality to bask in ethereal bliss for one suspended, endless instant, knowing that he is falling with her.

In the aftermath of their climax, he lies slightly shivering over her, his cheek pressed into her breast as he fights to catch his breath. Once again, he is heavy upon her, but she doesn't care, comforted beyond measure by this tangible evidence that this is real; she also knows that he will roll over soon enough, and that it is always too soon.

For now, she simply enjoys the feel of him, and how wonderfully spent and appeased she feels, nuzzling her nose in his damp hair as her fingers run over his back again, much more slowly now, in a gentle soothing caress.

Still, they don't speak, not even once; as they calm down and their heavy breathing and racing heartbeats go back to a tranquil pattern, the most prominent sound in the room once more becomes the soft pitter-patter of the rain outside their window.

Soon, it lulls them both back to sleep.


End file.
